


Rogues' Gallery

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-16
Updated: 2004-09-16
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Good taste is the worst vice ever invented. (London, 1660)





	Rogues' Gallery

“I won’t do it.” Aziraphale folded his arms across his chest.

Crowley arched a brow. “That’s your final word on the matter, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said slowly, avoiding Crowley’s eye. “I’ll not be swayed”

“You’ll at least look, won’t you? I picked them out especially.” Crowley laid a great pile of clothes upon the bed and gestured to them. “The very finest.”

“Doubtless.”

“Then what, pray tell, is the problem here?”

“I just cannot be bothered by modern trends.”

“Angel?”

“Mm?”

Crowley picked up a cloak of deep black velvet and draped it about Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You look positively dashing,” he boomed.

Aziraphale swallowed. “I do?”

“Most definitely.”

Brushing its long folds with his fingertips, Aziraphale felt a shiver of pleasure, a silver shard that circuited down his spine. “It is rather...” he trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Vainglorious,” Aziraphale asserted. He frowned, moving his arms against Crowley’s grip in attempt to throw the cloak off. “Unnecessarily so.”

“But not unforgivably so?”

“Well, I...” The angel’s smile was embarrassed. “Some might say that forgiveness is a bit of a specialized term.”

Crowley chuckled.

“In fact,” Aziraphale paused, touching the cloak once more. “Alright, I’ll try them on, though you should know that I refuse to feel obligated to keep anything.”

“Of course.” Crowley moved back toward the bed, glancing over his shoulder before taking a seat and stretching across the brocade coverlet with a languid deliberation. “I wouldn’t dream of pressuring you into anything,” he said with an innocent shrug. His eyes glimmered. “Well?”

The angel glanced away, setting a careful hand over his mouth as he spoke.

“Come again?”

“It’s just that...” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Is there perhaps somewhere more, well, private?”

Crowley frowned. “Private?”

Aziraphale let his gaze drop to the floor. “To change my clothes.”

“Oh,” Crowley said with a soft nod. “Oh, sure.” Standing, he crossed to a looming wardrobe and swung open the doors, pausing in front of it as though considering its contents for the first time in years. With a lopsided salute to Aziraphale, he took a visibly deep breath and stepped inside.

Papers rustled, boxes fell, hinges clanked in objection to being disturbed, and Crowley filled the air with an impressive string of profanity. Glass shattered.

Somewhere, deep within, there was an airy scream.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale shouted, wringing his hands. “You needn’t worry about it if it’s too much trouble.”

There was a second string of obscenities and the clatter of pots, pans, and what seemed to be a lion with operatic aspirations. After a long silence, Crowley bounded out from the darkness, a wide, folded screen held triumphantly before him. “Ngk,” he agreed, dashing a hand across his brow. “I found it.”

Aziraphale imagined that he saw a scattering of snow across Crowley’s shoulders. “Ah.”

With a shrug, Crowley hauled the screen to a far corner, smiling as he extended its bulky panels.

“Oh my, that’s really quite gorgeous,” Aziraphale murmured as he saw the scene that was painted across it in delicate strokes. Topaz birds flew below sterling clouds, over the supple water, and stood perched in the sprawling boughs of a great tree that was flanked on either side by two figures. Nude figures, albeit tasteful ones, Aziraphale had to admit; a man and a woman. “Oh.” Yes, Adam and Eve, the apple, and the serpent, too full of wiles to yet be denied. It grinned back at him. “Of course.”

“Well?”

“Mm?” Aziraphale glanced up. “Yes, marvelous. I’ll not be a minute,” he hastened to add, picking up the massive pile of garments.

It was, in fact, no less than twenty minutes.

Finding the proper place for each sash and sling proved to be a daunting task, and after the angel had stripped off his plain black clothes, he was determined to take his time with it. Stockings, breeches, belt, fob, frock -- he wondered how one could possibly keep it all in order, at once fighting the urge to ask Crowley’s advice about the exact purpose of a garment that most resembled a billowing petticoat.

“May I see?” Crowley’s voice suddenly broke in, his hand suddenly snaking around the top of the screen.

“No!” Aziraphale croaked, quickly pulling the jacket about his shoulders. As he at last finished fastening it, he straightened, gazing down at himself in certain horror. It took several minutes to slow the pounding of his heart.

Taking a deep breath and whispering a minor prayer, Aziraphale stepped out from behind the screen.

Crowley grinned.

“I look like a peacock,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth.

“Nonsense!”

The angel turned toward the nearby mirror. He flinched. “Ghastly.”

Crowley set his hands to his hips decisively. “You’re surely mistaken -- the breeches are charming. The jacket, too.” He nodded, raising his voice with enthusiasm as he continued, “I knew that crimson would be a good color for you. I’m never wrong about that sort of thing, you know.”

“A crimson peacock.”

“You looked like a caterpillar before,” Crowley confessed, reaching forward to straighten Aziraphale’s collar.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes.” Crowley smirked. “You did.”

After a long moment, Aziraphale whispered dejectedly, “I would have appreciated some mention of it before now, my dear.”

Crowley shook his head, ignoring him. “I’ll not be seen with you wearing those homespun rags a moment longer. Incinerate the lot of them.”

“You are too kind.”

Setting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, Crowley continued, “The crimson really does look perfectly splendid on you.”

Aziraphale frowned, tugging at the buttons that hung in a golden streak across his chest. He gazed at his reflection, half-dazzled by the multitude of bows and folds, half-damning the very same florid details and curves, all the while debating whether or not the crimson in fact made his cheeks appear unnaturally flushed and round. “I’ve yet to understand how mortals are able to accept the changing whims of fashion,” he said offhandedly, smoothing the puffed lace at his waist.

Crowley laughed conspiratorially. “Every six months, at the very least. A devious business, isn’t it?”

“A racket, more like,” Aziraphale quipped. “Indeed, I can think of nothing more superfluous.”

“And yet,” Crowley continued, crossing the room and retrieving a great, wide-brimmed hat from a speckled box. He smiled down at it, rustling the arc of feathers absentmindedly, and with a swift movement set it atop Aziraphale’s head. “I would have to say that, when one thinks about it seriously -- philosophically, even -- vanity is a rather nice sin.”

“I don’t even know where to begin my explanation of how gravely mistaken you are.” Aziraphale slowly raised his eyes to the dark curve of the hat. He laughed shortly. “How very tasteful.”

“Here, let me...” Crowley pushed the brim back over Aziraphale’s forehead, stepping away for an encompassing view, and nodded with satisfaction. “They’re worn high, just now.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said in a stiff voice, moving toward the screen once more. “If I do ever have the chance to wear these in public... which I highly doubt, though stranger things have happened, I suppose. Take France, for instance. A very peculiar place, wouldn’t you say, however enticing their menus may be...” He paused, feeling the other’s grip upon his shoulder. “What is it?”

Crowley’s lips parted in a sly grin. “I’ll pay for dinner.”

The angel sighed. “What do you have in mind? Fish?”

“Not fish.” His eyes narrowed in thought. “They have too many bones.”

“I know of an inn that makes delightful kickshaw,” Aziraphale suggested hopefully. He blushed, feeling Crowley’s gaze sweep across his form.

“No, no,” Crowley chided. “Lobster would be most fitting, don’t you agree?”

“I can only say that it is hardly surprising that you would think so.”

Crowley’s eyes glinted delightedly. “You really ought to let your guard down from time to time, angel. It is commonly believed that not all surprises are a bad thing.”

Aziraphale found that he was unable to argue with this. “Ah,” he said noncommittally.

“Oh... let me give you this before I forget.” Reaching into his waistcoat, Crowley carefully pulled out a long, immaculate feather, luminescent in the wavering candlelight. He seemed to hesitate, frowning down at it for a moment, before handing it to Aziraphale. “An extra plume for your hat, you know.”

“My word. Is this one of...?” the angel trailed off, his lips parted in thought.

Crowley grimaced, quickly reaching forward to take it back. “Look, if you don’t want it, just say so. You ought not to keep--”

“I should love to have it,” Aziraphale said, smiling wistfully and gently waving Crowley’s hand away. “Very much so.”

“Ah.” Crowley paused, dragging a hand through his hair. Glancing over his shoulder, he suddenly scowled, continuing, “Alright, as you like. Just know that you needn’t keep it in order to please me -- I despise that sort of thing.” As Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, Crowley’s features softened. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Don’t be long.”

“Don’t worry.” Aziraphale nodded, running the smooth bristles over the palm of his hand. Glancing into the mirror once more, he fought to disguise his distaste at the sight, the slightness of his frame swathed with silks and yards of lace. He sighed dismally. The fabrics were very soft and rich, more beautiful than he had ever allowed himself to suppose.

Picking up the hat, Aziraphale pulled apart the band, smoothing Crowley’s feather against the other light curls. He chuckled softly, “Thank you, my dear,” but Crowley had already gone, his footsteps becoming a dim echo in the hallway.

Aziraphale stretched his leather gloves over his hands. “Philosophy, indeed,” he ventured.

With a quick turn of his wrist, the ornate lace at his throat became a thin tartan scarf, red and black to match the glinting, sanguine hue of his coat. Smiling, he gently whistled as he moved to the door and down the corridor. His steps were quick; Crowley was waiting for him.


End file.
